


if you wanna use my body (go for it)

by notsafeforowls



Category: Constantine (TV), DC's Legends of Tomorrow (TV)
Genre: Gags, Hair-pulling, M/M, One Night Stands, Praise Kink, Rough Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-12
Updated: 2018-03-12
Packaged: 2019-03-30 03:50:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,120
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13941975
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/notsafeforowls/pseuds/notsafeforowls
Summary: He’s not really Mick’s type, but it’s one of those nights.





	if you wanna use my body (go for it)

**Author's Note:**

> Slight implications of Mick/Ray and/or Mick/Nate (or, at the very least, them matching Mick’s type.) Title is from Nobody Move, Nobody Get Hurt by We Are Scientists.
> 
> I'm mickroryed on Tumblr, feel free to yell at me about ships over there.

Mick’s been half-watching John Constantine from the other end of the bar all night. Or, to be more specific, he’s been watching Trench Coat watching him all night. He’d already been drinking when Mick had arrived, but he’s been nursing the same drink for the last three hours, his gaze occasionally flitting away from the bottles behind the bar to linger on Mick.

 

If Mick’s honest, he’s been expecting Trench Coat to track him down at some point in the last couple of months.

 

He’s not really Mick’s type. Mick likes them soft around the edges, likes pretty things he knows are breakable, not made of sharp edges and pre-broken. But it’s been a bad week, a bad month (or a bad life, depending on how Mick looks at it), and Mick either wants to fuck someone into a mattress until he isn’t thinking anymore, or burn something down. It would be easy to torch something. The bar even has little books of matches sitting beside the coasters. But Mick’s _trying_. He’s really trying, and he doesn’t really want to put up with the judgemental looks if he comes back smelling like smoke.

 

Trench Coat isn’t really Mick’s type, but when he gives Mick one final look before getting up and heading for the door, Mick decides that he’ll do for tonight. Mick finishes the rest of his bottle of beer and drops a generous tip before heading for the door.

 

He snags a book of matches on the way.

 

 

 

“The trouble with you time travellers is that I never know if I’m talking to the right version of you,” Trench Coat says as soon as the door closes behind Mick. He’s leaning against the wall of the next building, stupid coat bunched up against the cold. “We’ve met, right? I’m not trying to get a bingo before you join your merry little crew. I’m too close to a line to have to disqualify you because I’m trying to seduce you at the wrong time.”

 

Mick spares a second to wonder if he’s managed to get anyone other than the captain – he thinks Pretty would be up for it if Trench Coat made some conversation first, and Haircut’s the sort to melt over feelings and a sad-eyed expression – before he grabs a handful of that coat and pins him against the wall, kissing him hard. He tastes like the cheap whisky Mick’s been watching him play with all night.

 

“You’re not seducing me, you’re just stress release.”

 

“I’ll take that as a yes.” Trench Coat swipes his tongue along his lower lip. It makes him look guilty. It’s more attractive than Mick will ever admit.

 

“Have you got a room, Trench Coat?” Mick asks, because he isn’t taking this one back to the Waverider, even if it is nearby. He isn’t averse to a quick blowjob in an alley, but he doesn’t fuck in them. He’s always had some standards and he’s always insisted on at least a bed – a proper one, not an old mattress in the corner or a room somewhere.

 

“It’s John,” he says, as if Mick’s supposed to care, and smirks. “Don’t worry, you don’t have to remember it. But I like the people who fuck me to at least use it once. Manners, you know? _Mick_ ,” he adds pointedly before Mick can ask if he even knows his name, since Mick’s pretty sure he was too busy eyeing everyone on the Waverider to ask for it. “Unless you want me to fuck you?”

 

Mick doesn’t reply. He doesn’t have any issue with getting fucked, but he’s not going to let a guy he barely knows do it, that’s for sure. And definitely not when he knows where the guy’s dick has been, and has a good idea of where he hopes to put it in the future.

 

“Have you got a room or not?”

 

 

 

The hotel isn’t much of one. It’s in an even worse area of town than Mick expected, the kind of place he hasn’t stayed for long since he was a teenager, unless he’d been trying to avoid the pigs. People around here die and stay dead. That’s almost disappointing nowadays. There needs to be at least one doppelganger around to remind you that someone’s gone if your own fucked up brain decides to stop.

 

Mick pins him against the wall in the hallway, kisses him and nips at his lower lip so often that it feels more like a fight than a kiss, grabs at Trench Coat’s ass until his hips buck against Mick’s. He keeps him there for ten minutes, drawing it out like a taunt, until he lets Trench Coat slip away, fumbling for the key to the room.

 

They’re barely in the door of the hotel room when Trench Coat loses the trench coat, throwing some things from the pockets onto the bed and dumping the coat itself just inside the door. Mick doesn’t even bother watching Trench Coat—John; he can’t exactly call him Trench Coat when he isn’t wearing it anymore—undress, instead focusing on his own clothes. He kicks his boots in the vague directly of the little table beside the door and folds his jacket after he takes it off, putting it on the table. John plans on sleeping in this dump but Mick doesn’t.

 

By the time he looks up again, John’s on the bed, mostly naked and kneeling with only his white shirt on, unbuttoned and hanging to either side of him. He’s not as skinny as Rip, Mick thinks as he watches John grab something off the bed—it’s lube. A _bottle_ of lube. A small one, but a bottle all the same.

 

Who the fuck carries a bottle of lube in their coat pocket?

 

Mick strips quickly, dumping his clothes on top of the jacket, barely watching as John pours lube – not enough, the smart part of Mick’s brain tells him – across two of his fingers and reaches behind himself. He can’t see what John’s doing, but he doesn’t need to. Mick watches John’s face as he slides two fingers into himself, watches his expression become a little strained.

 

“I didn’t think I was your type,” John says conversationally, like he isn’t in the process of working two fingers into his own ass. There’s stubble burn across his face, a bit on his throat, and his mouth is kiss-swollen and slick. “And I don’t mean that I don’t look like your type, I mean that I didn’t know you played for my team at all.”

 

“It’s complicated.” It’s not really, but Mick doesn’t want to give him any more excuses to talk. He doesn’t _dislike_ people being loud in bed, but he doesn’t really want John to run his damn mouth the entire time. He picks up the tie, wrapping it around one hand, aware of the way that John’s watching his every movement.  

 

John smirks, arches his back a little, like this is supposed to be something seductive and not one step up from an anonymous fuck. “You don’t want to know why I tracked you down?”

 

“I already know.” The memory is fuzzy around the edges, the image of some soft, pretty thing on his knees in front of Mick, the ugly glare of the lights, the shape of John fucking Constantine standing at the mouth of the alley, cigarette in hand. Even now, Mick thinks he looked surprised. “Don’t watch people getting sucked off. It’s rude.”

 

“Don’t get sucked off in public,” John shoots back. “How do you want to do this? You want me on my back? Front? On my knees first?”

 

Mick grabs the bottle of lube from the bed, snapping open the lid. “First I’m going to do a better job with _this_.”

 

There’s a long moment where Mick’s sure that John’s going to tell him to fuck off, or punch him.

 

“And if I want it to hurt?”

 

“Then you can find someone else to fuck you.” Mick drizzles some of the lube across two of his fingers, enough that it drips onto the dark carpet of the room.  A bit of pain isn’t a bad thing, but Mick’s not into the self-punishment bullshit where someone’s looking to really be hurt and looking for someone who doesn’t care enough about anyone else to do it. He’s seen enough of the aftermath to want nothing to do with it, hurting or being hurt. “Get on your back.”

 

The argument Mick expects doesn’t come. Instead, John scrambles back until he can stretch out on the bed, legs spread, heels against the edge of the bedframe. Exposed. Mick tells himself that’s why leans over him just far enough to kiss him. It’s quick, gentler than Mick intends it to be, and John sits up a little bit, trying to follow him when Mick pulls away.

 

Mick works two fingers into John quickly, far more gently than he should, until he can slide his fingers right in, until can feel John relaxing around him, all soft gasps. He curls them, just a little, and brushes his fingers against John’s prostate, smirking at the way John tightens up around him, cursing.

 

“Fuck.”

 

“ _Now_ you can get on your front,” Mick says, removing his fingers and wiping them on the sheets (ignoring the annoyed expression.) He watches John roll over until he’s on his hands and knees as Mick slips on a condom. He adds a bit more lube, just to be safe, before he kneels between John’s legs, pressing the head of his cock against John’s hole, just hard enough for John to try and press back. “Deep breath.”

 

And then he’s pressing into John, his own groan drowning out whatever John says.

 

This? This is the closest he can get to the fire sometimes, the heat of someone else’s body, hot and tight and slick enough that Mick can slide in with one long, slow stroke. John drops his head to the mattress, all the tension going out of his shoulders.

 

“That’s more like it. Will you make me feel it?”

 

It’s enough of a preview for Mick to wrap one arm around John’s chest and yank him up far enough that Mick can kneel on the bed in one smooth movement, balls deep in John. John moans and curses, begs just a little bit.

 

Mick holds him there until he quiets, until his breathing no longer feels and sounds frantic, until Mick thinks that it’s the perfect moment to nip at John’s ear and start talking to him. “I’m gonna take care of you. I’m going to give you everything you want, everything you need. I’m going to fuck you so hard that you’re going to feel it for days. Every single time you sit in one of those bars to pick someone up or drown your sorrows, you’re going to think of me fucking you. You’re not even gonna manage to pick anyone up because you’re going to remember this and jerk off in the bathroom before you can get anywhere near them. But there’s one rule. You need to shut up. Can you do that for me?” Mick takes a quick risk with the next part, grabbing the discarded tie and balling it up so that he can hold it in front of John’s mouth, the message clear. “Will you be quiet for me? Will you be _good_ for me?”

 

The shiver that runs through John answers that question for him. Oh, yeah, this is going to be good.

 

“If I don’t like it, I’ll headbutt you.” John tilts his head back far enough that Mick almost gets a mouthful of his hair. He smells like cigarette smoke and like he’s lit something on fire recently.

 

It’s hotter than it should be, but John’s breath is hot against Mick’s hand as he opens it to accept the tie distracts him almost immediately. John’s upper teeth graze his palm as Mick presses the fabric into his mouth. Mick lets his hand linger there for a second, the tips of his fingers brushing against John’s face, before he all but throws John back down on the bed. John moans but, with the makeshift gag, Mick can’t make out what he’s saying. He pulls out until just the head of his cock is inside John, admiring the stretch of John’s hole around him, before pushing in fast and hard.

 

Fire has nothing on this.

 

There only sounds in the room for a long time are the quiet creaks from the bed, the slap of skin on skin, John’s muffled moans, and Mick’s own harsh gasps, and he finds himself wishing for a mirror so that he can see the look on John’s face. See the look on his face as Mick fucks him hard enough that it has to hurt, if he bites down on the tie or just moans around it, desperate and pleading, because Mick can make out the words now. He slides his hand up John’s back, making the shirt ride up even more, until he can cup the back of John’s head, sinking his fingers into hair that’s just long enough for him to give it a good yank.

 

“ _Please_ ,” John begs, letting the tie fall to the bed, and Mick feels the angle change as John moves, jolting to one side as he slips one hand between his body and the bed, and Mick doesn’t need to be able to see him to imagine the way that John’s hand moves along his cock, frantic and desperate. “ _Mick_!”

 

And that’s enough. Mick pushes his hand down hard, hard enough that there’s going to be a bruise right between John’s shoulders tomorrow, and he feels John come more than anything else, feels way he suddenly clenches up around Mick, the shudders that run the length of his body a split-second before he hears the way John’s gasps become choked. It’s enough to push Mick over the edge, pressing into John until there’s no space between their bodies, until he can sink his teeth into John’s shoulder as he comes.

 

Mick pulls out, absent-mindedly stroking one hand down John’s back, tugging the shirt down from where it’s rucked up awkward. He discards the condom in the trash can and cleans up with a couple of the wipes – at least the weird shit in those pockets is good for something – while John watches.

 

It’s tempting to keep going, Mick thinks as he watches John stretch before he sits up, rolling his shoulders. To sink two fingers into him and not give him a break until he’s hard again. He’d melt into the mattress easily, gasping and whining enough that Mick could pretend that he’s some soft pretty thing that Mick’s been trying not to look at, all soft around the edges instead of sharp points where he’s broken. It would be a nice illusion. It wouldn’t even be much of a lie.

 

“Now that’s just rude,” John says when Mick grabs his clothes and begins to dress, but he’s tugging the sleeves of his shirt down and trying for some semblance of composure. The bite mark on his shoulder is just visible. Mick makes sure that he hits him in the face with the pack of wipes. It doesn’t wipe the smirk off his face. “Thanks, love.”

 

“Fuck off. You want polite, find someone else to screw.” There’s no heat behind the words, though; any of it had vanished with the stress and the desire to burn something to ground. Mick finally pulls his jacket back on, pushing his hands deep into the pockets and watching John clean himself up, wiping away the lube. He hesitates for a moment before pulling out the book of matches from his pocket. He hasn’t carried a lighter for months (he really should get out of the habit of giving them to people) so these are the next best thing.

 

He throws it on the bed beside John and watches him ease open the window.

 

“Want one?” he offers the pack. Mick doesn’t really smoke-not since his twenties, when he’d had to stop after he’d caught Lisa sneaking one-but he takes one anyway. “Pro of a cheap hotel; their fire alarms are so shit they don’t go off unless you set a fire in the room. Good for exorcisms in an emergency, but I still don’t want to take the chance yet.”

 

Mick pushes past him to climb out onto the fire escape, settling down on the steps before he lights his cigarette.

 

John watches him before he leans back as he lights his own, blowing smoke out slowly and, fuck, shirt open, still naked from the waist down, his eyes half closed, he’s almost pornographic.

 

It’s a warm night, but not humid, just the kind of weather that lets you sit and do nothing outside without risking freezing your balls off.  The occasional car makes its way along the road, headlights lighting the way. If Mick really looks, he can see the handful of lights the new kid scattered around the Waverider to make sure that his sister would be able to find it. The kid’s off playing happy families and Mick can’t even grudge him that tonight. Fuck, if Lenny could see him now. It would be funny to see his reaction, even if Mick knows he’d have to endure judgemental looks over his (poor) taste in-what was it Len used to call them? Bedmates. Although Mick isn’t sure that John counts as a bedmate, if all they’ve only shared a bed for sex.

 

“Got any plans?”

 

Mick flicks ash down into the alley below. “No.”

 

He smokes the cigarette down to the filter and doesn’t take another when it’s offered.

 

“I’ll see you around, right?” John says as Mick starts down the fire escape. He’s on his second and showing no signs of stopping soon.

 

Mick grunts a response. He probably will.

 

 

 

Amaya gives him a knowing look when he gets back to the Waverider, and Pretty doesn’t let him pass without a smirk and a murmur of _you had a good night_ , and that’s fine. It’s not as if Mick’s trying to keep anything secret. Zari complains loudly that he came back smelling like smoke _and_ sex this time as Haircut splutters awkwardly.

 

Sara sidles up to him when he’s in the kitchen later, having showered off the smell of the smoke, and the sex, and the way Trench Coat’s body felt under his hands.

 

“I didn’t think John was your type,” she says conversationally; it doesn’t sound like ‘ _I didn’t think guys were your type_ ’ so Mick shrugs.

 

“He’s not.”

 

It’s not a complete lie.


End file.
